Dave Martins

I’ve talked before about nonsensical ideas we repeat as mantra – “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me” and “Time heals all wounds” are two of them. 

Election time will inevitably turn the temperature up on every issue under the sun, including lately complaints about the media displaying lack of veracity, lack of balance, and misinformation. 

A friend of mine living outside, Alex Neptune, recently sent me a photo of the Caribbean fruits and vegetables he grows in his backyard in New York and remarked on the number of fruits we have in the region, and that we appear to have lost some.

It is part of the fulminations of life that nothing happens in isolation.

Getting inside a culture and unravelling it for someone is tough enough if you’re from that culture. 

I was living in Toronto, 44 years ago, playing music full time with the Tradewinds band, when the annual Caribbean festival in Toronto known as Caribana was born. 

I sometimes play this game where I ask persons to complete the following sentence: “You know you’re in the Caribbean when…”  You get some delightful responses and often surprises; you should try it some time.

My Caymanian daughter mentioned to me recently that she had not paid much attention to dogs growing up (we had several), but that now they’re a joy in her life.

There are athletes who naturally impress us with their magnificent physical achievements of power and style that leave us gaping at the display, but the ones whom we take into our hearts, the ones we come to feel affection for, are the ones who also show us their excellence as people. 

In recent weeks I have heard vehemently from several persons, here and abroad, about the need for Guyana, in the midst of all the bad news, to be shouting about the positive stories that are around.

Joe Brown, the original bass player of the Caribbean Tradewinds band, would not eat breadfruit because it was “slave food.” 

Among the frustrations in modern life are things so ridiculous, so patently illogical, that when you run into them you are propelled to ask, “When are we going to stop this?”

We all do this.  We see something or hear something – it could be in a brief moment, or it could be a long enduring condition – and in the absurdity of it, a momentary query, along the lines of “why is that going on?”

There was a time – and not so long ago at that – when the mass distribution of a personal opinion was a very restricted process. 

In recent years, with so many lacklustre Caribbean cricket teams frustrating us with their poor play, and particularly with the sad state of the once supreme regional team, you lose some enthusiasm for cricket, and even end up not watching some games at all.

It’s called Timehri now, but in the 1950s, when I worked there for three years, our international airport was called Atkinson Field.

It’s the middle of the day. A quite sophisticated Georgetown lady is parked in her car on Church Street, waiting for a friend, with the doors locked and windows up.

Visiting a country for short spells, no matter how frequently they occur, can leave you unsure if a social behaviour or condition in that society is entrenched or not.

In the middle of the current World Cup discourses, it is interesting to notice in the evaluation of batsmen, that often the deliberation as to quality often centres around the statistics – who scored the most runs; who hit the fastest century; who had the most boundaries, etc.

Given the fractured and dislocated conditions of our history in this region, Caribbean people have had a hard climb up the ladder of self-worth.